


Free Parking

by kim47



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Board Games, Fluff, M/M, Semi-established relationship, monopoly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-30
Updated: 2012-06-30
Packaged: 2017-11-08 21:17:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/447663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kim47/pseuds/kim47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John can't remember why he thought playing Monopoly with Sherlock was a good idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Free Parking

**Author's Note:**

> A silly little thing for [](http://mandatorily.livejournal.com/profile)[**mandatorily**](http://mandatorily.livejournal.com/). I first wrote it, gosh, probably more than a year ago for a prompt on the kinkmeme requesting Sherlock and John playing-a-boardgame-and-then-sexytimes, but it's been largely rewritten. The entire second half, in fact.

Sherlock scowled across the coffee table at John. As he’d been doing it for the last ten minutes, John continued to ignore him and rolled the dice.

Double fives.

Bugger.

“Nine hundred and seventy five,” Sherlock said, his voice flat.

John shoved the luridly-coloured money across the table towards Sherlock, who collected it with a sigh, picked up the dice, and rolled.

Six-four.

Sherlock passed the dice back to John.

“You know that was your third turn, right? You have to pay now,” John said. Sherlock frowned at him.

“If you’d been paying attention, you’d know that that was my second turn. I’m perfectly entitled to stay in jail for another round,” he said.

“Sherlock, that was your third turn. I remember: after your first round, I landed on King’s Cross, then on Community Chest and got a hundred quid. And just now, I paid you a frankly indecent amount for what I’m sure would be an appallingly messy flat in Coventry Street.”

“John, really, I’d always thought you had some modicum of intelligence, or at least basic memory skills. You landed on King’s Cross the turn _before_ I went to jail.”

John stared at him in disbelief.

“Are you kidding me? Are you deliberately trying to wind me up? I remember exactly what happened!”

Sherlock snorted. “Your memory is faulty.”

“You just want to stay in there for another turn to avoid having to pay me any rent!”

“No, I’m staying in jail because _I still have another turn in jail_.”

“You’re still grumpy because I managed to buy all three orange properties, aren’t you?”

“I refuse to dignify such an absurd suggestion with a response.”

“You just did!”

Sherlock’s lips clamped shut, a grim, unbreakable line.

Realising his protest were futile, John rolled the dice as angrily as he could, sending one flying off the coffee table and under the sofa. Sherlock, in a fit of petulance quite remarkable for a man of his age and intelligence, absolutely refused to help John find it.

Four minutes later, dice retrieved, carefully rolled, and pieces moved, John found himself in jail with Sherlock.

“Your turn,” he said. “And don’t think you’re going to stay in here another turn. Just pay the bloody money and get out.”

Although clearly not pleased, Sherlock handed John fifty quid and took his turn.

Five-three.

John grinned.

“That’s nine hundred and fif-”

“I know,” Sherlock snapped.

“Did you know that the orange properties are statistically the most likely - ”

Sherlock thrust the money at John, who collected it with a grin, then took his turn.

Double three.

Oh, bloody fuck. Typical. He didn’t even get to sit in jail for a breather, he was being flung straight back out onto what was an horrific board to play on; Sherlock owned everything on the last fifteen squares of the board and had more or less entirely developed every square. Not to mention the utilities. Frankly, John couldn’t believe he hadn’t gone bankrupt hours ago.

_Hours_ ago, Christ. Why the hell had this seemed like a good idea?

Four hours and thirty eight minutes ago, Sherlock had been moping on the sofa, bored and irritable, and John had been desperate to fix it before their flat paid the price. As a last resort, he’d suggested a board game, and Sherlock, to his infinite surprise, had agreed (admittedly with a long-suffering sigh). Sherlock had then rejected every suggestion of John’s as he dug through Mrs Hudson’s cupboard (“Cluedo, John, really? _You_ want to play _me_ at Cluedo? I’d like this to be something of a challenge.”) until they’d finally settled on Monopoly.

John was now wishing he’d left Sherlock to shoot up the walls. He moved six spaces, fortunately onto his own property, and passed the dice back to Sherlock.

“John, you do realise that it is unlikely that this game will ever end? Given the combination of property possession and location, it is likely that we will continue to trade meaningless sums of ridiculously-coloured money until one of us kills the other in a fit of exasperation.”

“So you’re conceding?”

“No!”

“Well, then.”

Sherlock swore under his breath and took his turn.

*

Thirty four minutes later not much had changed.

John had cursed fluently when he’d landed on Park Lane and had to pay Sherlock fifteen hundred quid, but fortunately Sherlock landed on one of John’s own hotels on the next round and pulled him back from the brink of bankruptcy. They had both gone round the board a few more times in an endless cycle of money exchange and gibes at one another’s strategies. John was certain that time had actually stopped, and he was doomed to be stuck in this game of Monopoly with Sherlock forever.

“Look, Sherlock, why don’t we set a time limit? Whoever has the most money, both in cash and property value, after the next half hour wins,” he offered after landing on Community Chest and being awarded £10 for winning second prize in a beauty contest. Not bad.

“Those aren’t the rules.”

“Since when do you care about rules?” Jesus Christ, Sherlock could be irritating.

“There’s no point playing a ridiculous game like this if you don’t follow the rules. They are largely arbitrary and rather poorly thought-out but if we’ve been following them this entire time, stopping now would invalidate the last five hours.”

“That is complete and utter bollocks, you know. You just want to bankrupt me.”

Sherlock sat primly on the edge of the sofa and ignored John in favour of taking his turn.

John sank back in his armchair. This was it. This was how he was going to die. He’d survived a _war_ , not to mention countless thugs, villains and murderers, only to die of sheer frustration playing a bloody stupid board game with his bloody annoying flatmate.

Well, not really just his flatmate anymore.

But as they hadn’t quite progressed past the stage of breathless shags in Sherlock’s room, the kitchen and on one occasion against the front door, and had never really _talked_ about it, John didn’t really have a handle on what else to call him.

Nevertheless, he’d been tempted several times this afternoon to climb over the table, push Sherlock down on the sofa and make him stop being so infuriating.  
John sighed and returned his eyes to the board.

Two-three.

_Income Tax, pay 10% or £200._

Before John’s disbelieving eyes, Sherlock began to count his money up.

“You have to be kidding me,” John said, staring at Sherlock in disbelief. Sherlock ignored him.

“Why are you choosing this time to do this?! You’ve just paid the £200 every other bloody time you’ve landed on it!”

Sherlock finished counting his hundreds and moved on to the fifties.

“Sherlock, you _clearly_ have more than £2000 worth of assets, you’ve got hotels on six properties, for God’s sake!”

“I have been given to understand that the 10% applies only to the cash in one’s possession,” Sherlock said very deliberately.

“Nope, it applies to _all_ your assets. Cash, property, houses, hotels.”

“Does it say that in the rules?”

John wanted to smack him over the head.

“Sherlock, I’ve played this game a hundred times. I know the rules. You have to pay ten percent of everything.”

“I want to see it in the rules,” Sherlock insisted.

It’s just a game, John told himself. It is not a good enough reason to spend life in jail for murdering your boyfriend. Flatmate. Whatever.

“I don’t have a copy. They weren’t in the box.”

Sherlock stared at him, eyes narrowed.

“We appear to be at an impasse.”

John made a strangled noise of frustration. “Can’t you just take my word for it, for once?”

Sherlock snorted. John’s fingers itched to seize him by the front of his dressing gown and throttle him.

“Forgive me if I’m not inclined to believe you, given that you’ve been attempting to cheat me out of my proper rent for the entire game,” Sherlock said, arms on knees, leaning across the coffee table.

“It’s not my fault that you weren’t paying attention,” John shot back. “Maybe next time you won’t text Lestrade during my turn.”

“Oh, so you see no problem with defrauding me of my money, yet still expect me to believe you when you say ‘it’s the rules’,” Sherlock said, voice raising as he mimicked John.

“I wasn’t _defrauding_ you! You just weren’t paying any bloody attention! I’m not required to actively help you beat me!”

The frustration that had been building for what felt like an eternity was bubbling right underneath John’s skin now, threatening to break loose.

Sherlock scoffed and reached for his phone on the coffee table.

“You won’t mind if I just look it up, then.”

John’s hand shot out and caught Sherlock’s wrist.

“Yes, I do mind.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Well, well, you admit that you’re wrong, then?” he drawled.

“Of course I don’t. You’re just being completely childish! Not that that should surprise me anymore. You know I’m right, you’re just being an arse because you can and trying to get under my skin because for some reason it pleases you to act like a seven-year-old!”

Sherlock attempted to shake his wrist free from John’s grip. “John,” he said warningly.

“Sherlock,” John returned, refusing to look away.

Suddenly, with a neat, sharp twist of his arm, Sherlock jerked John forward and, grabbing his shoulder, twisted him around, and John found himself on his back on the coffee table, staring up into Sherlock’s smirking face, his own wrists now both pinned lightly to the table. He could feel little plastic houses digging into his back and the outline of the board across his shoulders.

For a moment they were both still, watching each other; Sherlock’s face was only inches from John’s, his breath warm on John’s lips. Then John squeezed his knees tight around Sherlock’s hips and turned at the waist, dislodging Sherlock and rolling them both onto the floor, taking the Monopoly board with them and sending cards, money and little plastic houses flying everywhere.

They landed heavily, legs tangled together, John’s right arm caught beneath him and Sherlock’s hands still gripping his wrists. Sherlock’s breath was coming quickly as they struggled, his dressing gown twisting and tangling between them. Sherlock was strong, which John had expected, but John had training on his side, not to mention a compact frame more suited to wrestling.

In under a minute, John had Sherlock pinned to the floor, his legs tight astride Sherlock’s hips. And it was suddenly the most ridiculous thing in the world. The giggles started quietly but soon he was laughing helplessly and he dropped his head to Sherlock’s chest, which was likewise shaking with laughter.

It took a moment to calm himself, but when the laughter subsided, he braced himself over Sherlock, forearms on either side of his head.

“You,” he said as seriously as he could manage, “are the most frustrating individual I have ever had the misfortune to know.”

Sherlock only hmm’d in reply and rolled his hips. He was half-hard, and John wondered how long he’d been this way and if this was, perhaps, an additional cause of his snarkiness.

“Well, Doctor Watson? Are you going to do something about this?” Another wiggle of hips and a half smile.

John leant down slowly and brushed his lips against Sherlock’s, who pulled John further down into the kiss, immediately trying for control. Typical. John curled a hand into Sherlock’s hair, tilting his head a little, curling his tongue around Sherlock’s and giving as good as he got. He counted it as a victory when Sherlock broke away, breathing heavily, and moaned a little when John nipped at his jaw.

John’s back chose this moment to remind him that he was certainly not twenty years old anymore and that while sex on the floor may seem like a good idea now, he would be paying for it tomorrow. He sat back, pleased at the small noise of protest from Sherlock when he pulled away. Sherlock followed him up and pulled him into another rough kiss, tugging at his legs until John was essentially sitting in his lap. Sherlock’s lips were warm and insistent, his hands sliding under John’s shirt and stroking the skin at the small of his back. Christ but Sherlock had amazing fingers.

The longer they kissed, the harder it was to remember why the floor was a bad idea; Sherlock’s hands were wandering further, slipping down the back of John’s trousers, his tongue deliciously hot in John’s mouth.

He pushed Sherlock away long enough to stand up, then drag Sherlock up after him, push him over to the sofa and crawl on top of him. Sherlock looked pleased enough at the change and leaned up for another kiss. John, his head clearer for the few moment’s breathing space, wasn’t giving in that easily.

“Why is it,” he asked instead, “that you can never just admit when you’re wrong?”

“Not much practise?”

John rolled his eyes, and Sherlock hooked one leg around his and pressed them closer together. He started rocking his hips shamelessly, biting his lip and widening his eyes meaningfully at John.

“Subtle,” John snorted. He spied a property card stuck to Sherlock’s neck, sitting just above his t-shirt, declaring him to have a mortgage value of £320. John plucked it off.

“320 quid, hey? Not sure I’d pay that...”

Sherlock bit his neck gently in response and slid his hands back under John’s shirt. John finally gave in and tugged Sherlock’s head back so he could reach his mouth, and Sherlock smiled and kissed back eagerly, one hand wandering down to John’s arse and squeezing a little.

John snorted, breaking the kiss. Sherlock started tugging his shirt up, and John took the hint, sitting up and stripping out of his shirt and cardigan. Sherlock immediately ran his hands over John’s chest, almost greedily, his palm coming to rest over the scar on John’s shoulder. He had an odd fascination with it, he like to touch and trace it every time they had sex. It didn’t bother John, exactly, but he was almost afraid to ask what the attraction was, never sure he wanted to hear the things that went on inside Sherlock’s head.

Instead he tugged Sherlock into a sitting position and slide his dressing gown off his shoulders and making short work of his t-shirt. Sherlock allowed it, but the moment his arms were free, he slid his hand down to cup John’s half-hard cock, mouth working over his left pectoral.

“Jesus, Sherlock, hang on a mom-ahhhhh!” Sherlock sucked his nipple into his mouth and swirled his tongue around it. John took his head in his hands and pulled him back.

“Evil,” he said, running his thumb along Sherlock’s spit-slick lower lip. He gently pushed him to lie down and tugged Sherlock’s pyjamas down to mid-thigh. He knelt over him, gripping his cock around the base with his hand and taking it into his mouth. He loved doing this; loved the feeling of Sherlock’s hands sliding into his hair, and the way it made Sherlock’s breath short and his eyes squeeze shut. The way he inevitably lost control and started moving his hips, fucking up into John’s mouth like he was doing now.

John moved both hands to Sherlock’s hips to hold them down and pulled off, grinning up at Sherlock, who glared back. Sherlock’s cheeks were flushed and his lips looked like he’d been biting them and Jesus, he looked spectacular like this. John moved up Sherlock’s body and kissed him, sliding his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth, and wrapped a hand around Sherlock’s cock. He started to stroke slowly.

“I told you no moving,” he said between kisses, delighted at the way Sherlock whimpered slightly when he flicked his thumb over the head. “Last time, remember?”

“When have I - ah - ever listened to you?” Sherlock managed, panting now as John’s hand moved faster.

“Not often,” John conceded. He was bordering on painfully hard now, his erection pressing against Sherlock’s hip. Sherlock seemed to notice, finally, and he shoved John’s shoulders back far enough for him to get a hand between them and started fumbling at John’s belt. It took him a few goes, but he got John’s belt off and trousers undone, tugging them down with no finesse and wrapping his hand around John’s prick.

“Fuck, Sherlock.”

John moved his mouth to Sherlock’s neck, licking and sucking at it as Sherlock jerked him. Sherlock’s hands, always so quick and clever and expressive, were no less talented when it came to this.

Sherlock shifted and maneuvered them (stopping briefly to push his pyjama bottoms all the way off and leave them in a heap at the foot of the sofa) until John was lying between his thighs, knees planted with just enough leverage to -

“Mm, yes, fuck, _John_ ,” Sherlock moaned as they thrust against each other, hips moving in perfect counterpoint to John’s. John loved that Sherlock swore when they did this, was always a little shamefully pleased at the profanities that rolled off his tongue in that gorgeous voice. Sherlock wasn’t loud, exactly, during sex, but he was vocal, never hesitant to ask for (demand, more like) what he wanted or show his appreciation.

Sherlock’s knees were squeezing his hips, and he raised his own, just enough for John’s cock to slip up behind his balls, pressing against his perineum and further back to slide between his arse cheeks.

“Shit,” John swore, thrusting a little harder.

“I want you to fuck me,” Sherlock said, biting at John’s earlobe.

“Yes, yes, okay,” John replied, a little breathless, and sat back. “Do you have anything?”

Sherlock frowned.

“What?” Jesus, John loved it when Sherlock was a little sex-dazed.

“Condoms, lube, anything?”

“No, I thought you would.”

“I don’t typically walk around the house with packets of lube hidden on my body,” John retorted. “We were playing Monopoly! I don’t know how you usually play it, but this isn’t typically how it ends.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Well, hurry up then,” he said, waving towards the stairs. John narrowed his eyes.

“I’m not going looking for some like this.” He gestured to himself, trousers half off, prick hard and bobbing against his stomach.

“But - ”

“Oh no, Sherlock, don’t even try and pout at me. That doesn’t work, I’ve seen you use that look on Molly. Just...lie back.”

Sherlock did, still looking slightly sulky. John drew his legs back, tucking one over his shoulder and pushing the other wide. He took Sherlock’s slightly-flagging erection in one hand and started to stroke, bringing him back to full hardness.

The key to this was to not think about it too much. It’d been a while since he’d done this.

He leaned in slowly, eyes fixed on Sherlock’s, which were curious-wide. He licked tentatively at Sherlock’s hole, sliding the flat of his tongue over it before running his tongue around the rim. Sherlock’s hips jerked, clearly involuntarily, and a sharp “ _fuck_ ” fell from his lips. John smiled. That was certainly the response he was going for. He did it again, using both hands to spread Sherlock’s cheeks, giving himself better access.

In under a minute, Sherlock dropped his leg off John’s shoulder and put his foot flat on the floor, hips arching towards John’s mouth, a clear demand for more. John took the opportunity to shove a cushion under his hips and pull him further down the sofa.

“Touch yourself,” he ordered, returning his mouth to Sherlock’s arse, licking and mouthing at his hole, messy and wet. He thought it should probably have been a little disgusting, but Sherlock was moaning and swearing, the hand not fisting his cock curved against John’s head, and instead it was almost unbearably erotic. He curled his tongue into a point and pressed hard, pushing it inside Sherlock’s body.

“John, please, I’m going to - ”

John pressed the tip of his index finger in, still licking around the rim, and Sherlock came, his thighs shaking, hole clenching around John’s finger.

It took a few moments for him to come down, and John rested his head against Sherlock’s thigh, kissing it shakily as he slid his hand down to palm at his own erection. Christ, it was aching. He got in a few strokes before Sherlock said “John,” and pulled at his soulders, kissing him as soon as his mouth was in reach. He batted John’s hand away from his cock and wrapped his own around it, fisting it slowly.

“Christ, John, that was quite incredible,” he murmured in his ear, pausing to lick the soft skin at the turn of his jaw. He tightened his grip and began to move his hand faster.

“So I give you,” John said, biting his lip at a particularly nice twist of the wrist, “the orgasm of your life - ”

“I didn’t say that.”

“ - and you give me a handjob?” He nipped teasingly at Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock ignored him, but he was suddenly doing something _fantastic_ with his hand, and he twisted his head to kiss John, fucking his tongue in and out of his mouth, and okay this was technically just a handjob, but it was pretty much the best one he’d ever had, unbelievably good. It didn’t take him long to come, his cries muffled against Sherlock’s mouth as Sherlock stroked him through it.

John slumped against Sherlock’s chest, feeling lazy and satisfied and the tiniest bit embarrassed about being spread out, half-naked, on top of his entirely naked flatmate at four in the afternoon. All his earlier frustration, however, was completely gone

“Now _that_ ,” Sherlock said, after a few moments of pleasant silence, “was fun. Are you sure Monopoly’s not meant to end like that?”

John laughed and kissed him, enjoying the feel of Sherlock smiling against his lips. After a few minutes of lazy making out, he forced himself up and began to grope around for his shirt. Given the typical traffic in and out of their flat, lying around undressed was not an advisable activity. Neither was shagging on the sofa, come to think of it.

“So what should we do now?” John asked when he’d rescued his shirt from the floor and chucked Sherlock’s pyjama pants at his head. “I think we can safely call that game a draw.”

“I think,” Sherlock said, “that we should clean this mess up.” Which is code for “ _you_ should clean this mess up”, John has no doubt. “Then we should go upstairs and you can fuck me properly.”

John snorted. “Christ, Sherlock, I’m not a young man anymore. I’m going to need a bit longer than that.”

“In that case,” Sherlock said, ”how about another round of Monopoly?”


End file.
